Hidden
by Frozeninspace
Summary: He's a fallen angel, but sooner or later he could be a fallen human. Can Dean help him at all? Set S9ish, probably AU. TW for self destructive behaviours such as alcoholism, drugs, and mention of suicide.


Castiel really can't take being a human anymore.

He's been like this for three weeks, and they're the worst he's ever had. He remembers Purgatory, but even that wasn't anywhere near as painful as these three weeks have been. He found the Winchesters quickly, but that hasn't stopped the guilt.

After all, he's the one who caused his entire kind to fall.

He should never have trusted Metatron, and he knows that now. But he can't shake the idea that everything is his fault, as always.

It's been a long time since he ate anything, possibly a couple of days, but Dean hasn't noticed yet, because he's too busy trying to get Sam fixed up. He doesn't notice that Castiel just isn't looking after himself, and Castiel wonders if he even cares. Castiel knows that he doesn't care about himself, and he'd be quite happy to just leave this place behind, permanently.

But he knows he can't, because then Dean will blame himself and it'd be the beginning of the end for all of them.

So Castiel sits about the bunker, not doing anything, just watching as his body gets thinner and thinner.

Then, Dean notices something's up. He thought Castiel was taking time to adjust, but when he notices that Castiel doesn't eat, ever, and that the booze is vanishing faster than normal, he recognises that behaviour for exactly what it is.

Self- destruction.

Because, you see, Dean has been through the exact same thing. The worst time, when he was exactly like this, when Sam went off to Stanford. And, remembering the way that Future Cas was, blinking at the rememberance of the conversation ('Are you stoned?' 'Generally, yeah'), he decides he needs to do something now, or risk seeing the same thing happen.

'Yo, Cas. Want something to eat?'

'No thank you, Dean. I'm not hungry.'

'Really? Cos I don't think you've eaten yet today.'

'I have, I ate some toast, while we were watching Star Trek.'

'Cas, that was two days ago.'

'Was it? Oh.'

'Look, man, what's up?'

'Nothing.'

'Oh, really.'

'Yes. Now please, leave me alone.'

'Okay, fine. Just answer me this - How many beers have you had today?'

'Four, perhaps five, or more. Why is that of any import?'

'Because it's at least eight.'

'I said, maybe more. Now please, leave me alone.'

'Fine.'

It was worse than he thought.

* * *

Cas was just so done. All he could see was the faces of other angels and the people he killed, swirling round him in a never-ending whirlpool of despair. He dreamt about them every night he slept, so he didn't sleep much. He knew Dean had picked something up, but he just didn't care, especially not tonight.

He'd snuck out and now he had a good mix of things he'd never tried before, but began with the one that you smoked - he remembered the first humans who had tried it, and how happy they had seemed afterwards. Now he would find out. He inhaled after lighting it and took pleasure in how much he just didn't care. Or he would have, had Dean not burst in at that moment. He sat down on the bed and whipped the blunt out of his mouth, stubbing it out on the ashtray.

'We're talking.'

'There's nothing to talk about.'

'Erm, yeah, there is. You know, the not eating, the not sleeping, the drinking, and now this.' He raised the brown bag into the air.

'How did you know about -'

'It doesn't matter how I know, but anyone could look at you and see that you're not dealing. At all. Now talk.'

'It doesn't matter. Because I know you don't care.'

'I don't care?! Where did you get that idea from? Of course I freaking care!'

'Then that's why you took so long to realise this?'

'Well I'm sorry, I've had a lot to deal with, alright?'

'Please, just leave me alone. I can deal with this.'

'No you can't. And I'm not letting this happen.'

'It's not your choice.'

'It might not be, but I've been through this. And there's no light if you go down this path.'

'How did you get through?'

'I...got sectioned. For about two weeks. And trust me, it wasn't nice.'

'What did you do?'

'Apparently, hunting scars look a lot worse to people who don't know where they came from. Combine that with an accidental overdose and alcohol poisoning, and you're just headed for the big white house.'

'I'm sorry, I...I didn't know.'

'I know. And Sam doesn't know everything either, so if you could maybe not tell him, that'd be great.'

'Of course...can I talk to you now?'

'Go ahead.'

'I...can see them. The people who've died because of me. And I can't take it.'

'Cas-'

'And I'm...I can't think of the right word. I'm not sad, I'm not upset, I've just lost any interest in life or anything else.'

'Cas, you're depressed. And how much weight have you lost in the past few weeks?'

'I estimate about fifteen to twenty pounds. But...I can't eat, Dean. I feel sick whenever I do.'

'I'm going to help you deal with that. And the alcohol thing too.'

'...Thank you, Dean. But I'm not so sure that I'm not beyond help.'

'You're still alive, so you're still helpable.'

'Thank you, again.'

'No need for that.'

Castiel stood up, preparing to walk to the kitchen, but he began to stumble, and Dean caught him as he fell. He pulled him into a hug, and Castiel relaxed, tears that he would not let shed caught in his eyes.

'Now, let's go fix some food, shall we?'

'That sounds like a wonderful idea, Dean.'

'Burgers okay?'

'Definitely.'

And with that, Castiel began to feel maybe a glimmer for hope for the future.


End file.
